The day I turned local I drove past my house after a long day at work to buy a can of beer at the Menehune Mart two blocks from my house, then drive down to the beach to watch two fishermen on the reef cast nets; my 15 year-old Chihuahua on my lap with her paws on the door ledge, her sharp nose scribbling messages on the returning Trades.
I scooch down in the seat to watch the light dim to black and the two men switch on a flashlight as they make their slow pitch toward shore – a speck of yellow on an eternity of sea and sky.
Their dark silhouettes interrupt a narrative of rivulets still catching what little light remains of a gone sun. The fishermen are the only movement against the dialogue of the sea.
How wonderful to have that time of day, that place, just the two of you looking back at the coast to see a parade of headlights on the highway while standing knee-deep in water, and not be a part of it.
The best kind of separation.
And, not just one of you – two of you – a witness to say “look,” and later, “remember.”
Like when I walk home after dark and can’t help but spy on families through their curtainless windows. Human traffic merges in halls, the living room, the kitchen; dinner is placed on a table with seven chairs or the blue light of television casts its glow across faces and walls.
I walk by houses with sisters, brothers, a mother and father. A longing catches in my throat. That chaos of belonging. To disappear into a family like a blue thread woven into a skein of orange, red and purple so tight one can’t pick the blue out of the fabric – only know it’s there adding one strand of its strength.
The fishermens' flashlight is the thing my eyes go to when set against the story of the sea and sky. Humanity bobs along a sentence that started billions of years ago and will continue for a billion more, long after my human lantern has burned out. Long after the blue thread in the fabric has been pulled loose, leaving a thin spot in an unfinished sentence.
I will never be local. A can of beer, a truck and a chihuahua don't make me part of some club defining who belongs on Kauai and who doesn't. I am a witness to a story and the narrator of this small scene.
Even though I celebrate 10 years on Kauai April 30, I am and always will be just a visitor here.
3 comments:
I currently visit Colorado. April is the season for Spring cleaning the garage. It translates to jury rigging a cassette deck and a VHS to Revisit, Reduce, Reuse and Recycle. "Harold and Maude" and a couple of Tom Waits mixes are destined to survive. Hope you are well. I am.
Good One...
We're all locals on this planet.
sometimes, all it takes a sudden shift in tectonic plates and a Tsunami to remind us of how connected we all really are..
sometimes it's a soft pastel sunset with two fishermen making their way home...
suck em' up seestah! ..an geev one kweek seep fo dah dawg too!
Pammy, many beautiful images and thoughts and strings of words in this piece, including:
…her sharp nose scribbling messages on the returning Trades
Their dark silhouettes interrupt a narrative of rivulets still catching what little light remains of a gone sun. The fishermen are the only movement against the dialogue of the sea.
And, not just one of you – two of you – a witness to say “look,” and later, “remember.”
To disappear into a family like a blue thread woven into a skein of orange, red and purple….
The fishermens' flashlight is the thing my eyes go to when set against the story of the sea and sky. Humanity bobs along a sentence that started billions of years ago and will continue for a billion more, long after my human lantern has burned out. Long after the blue thread in the fabric has been pulled loose, leaving a thin spot in an unfinished sentence.
I am a witness to a story and the narrator of this small scene.
Post a Comment